


Lifelines

by staroamer



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Androids, Cyberpunk, Cyborgs, Dark moments, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Gritty, Lotor is not evil, M/M, More tags will be added later, One-Sided Lance/Lotor (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Politics, Shiro fought in the uprising, Slow Burn, Thriller, a mixture of high fantasy and science fiction, badass allura, everyone eventually shows up, hesitant friends to lovers, i don't wanna give too much away, lance is a mess, star-crossed lovers, uh, underground peace rallies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-14 01:30:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16903548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staroamer/pseuds/staroamer
Summary: The year is 2120 and Lance is running for his life. Or, more accurately, he is running to someone who could eitherendit orsaveit. With no lasting memory of how he really got injured in the first place, the most he can do is rely on a poorly drawn map and his own wits to lead him to a safe haven, to a shop where no money is needed to pay for what must be done. Here, he begins a journey that is both as dangerous as it is healing. Here, he tries to beat the clock and ultimately: fate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for any mistakes!

 

 

There is a chill in the air.

Lance Mcclain can feel it against his skin, on the crests of his cheeks and the tip of his fingers. He walks with purpose though his eyes are downcast, kept shadowed from the glances that follow him through the rain drenched street. Puddles splash beneath his boots, disrupting the settled grime like a coin flipped into a fountain. Ripples form the moment he passes, reflecting the skyline and the colors therein.

But he isn't looking up.

He follows the poorly drawn map hovering above his arm, knowing he  _must_  be going the right way. And if he's not, well, he might as well be dead.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he glances to his left. Alleyways are the same here as they are anywhere else: deep and dark and strewn with trash. But going this route is better than taking the bustling sidewalks and infinitely better than asking for directions.

He crosses the street in a jog, hood shifting against the strands of his brown hair. The moment he's safe within a new alley he can feel the beating of his heart slow to a stuttering patter. Just calm enough to remind him that he isn't caught, that he isn't being followed or thrown against a wall to be questioned or killed, but still irregular enough to remind him why he's doing this in the first place.

He passes multiple doors that are wedged open, sounds emerging from inside. Light falls over his face in segmented shifts, accentuating the scar on his brow; on his lip and the slope of his lithe neck. He knows that they are ghastly things and most others would have them fixed by now. But he only has so much money and there are more important things to spend it on. One, being his survival. Two, the bills from the hospital that overflow his accounts. The rest always comes after.

Glancing down at the holographic map one more time, he studies the address and the building, rooting it to memory. When he finally closes it, the screen flickering before disappearing completely, he takes a final look around. Each turn led him closer to this destination and if the faded, scratched graffiti on the wall ahead has any meaning, it's that he's made it.

His footsteps crunch on broken glass, the sound loud against the backdrop of distant voices. Sirens whir far away and horns honk, the mix of noise undulating with the rumbling thunder. When he inches the heavy steel door open, soft music plays and leaves the bustle of the city behind. It's different than the pulsing beats found everywhere else. Soft and old, the song sounds like it had been recorded in a completely different time.

Stepping inside, the shop is infinitely warmer than the air outside. A small breeze ruffles a faux plant when he shuts the door but somewhere, surely, a fire must be roaring. While it's probably just another illusion, the warmth it gives definitely isn't. He sniffs and looks around, surprised to find the place so furnished. Plush black leather couches are situated around a central table of dark wood. Dim lights hang from the ceiling, casting shadows on several machines that blink and whir with soft engines. Lance raises a brow at the plants littered around the room, all green and flush with life though he's not so sure they aren't as fake as the fur rug on the hardwood floor.

All in all, the place is nice.

And in no way what he was expecting.

Stories of the Androids circulate the central human hubs like scary bedtime stories, rumors that raise tensions and illicit violent behavior. The lines between the bio world and that of the artificial are surprisingly thin, especially when it takes only ten minutes to enter either territory undetected. Though one wrong step on the subway, or within a well lit street, and you could be swept up in a shitstorm.

Which is why Lance is particularly nervous tonight. This is last place he wants to be but it is also the  _only_  place he can be.

"Hello?" He calls, risking everything with that single greeting.

Silence.

He takes another step into the room, smelling metal and oil and something spicy, almost like cinnamon. He latches onto it instantly and breathes it in deeper, finding it comforting compared to the wintry oil slicks outside.

"Hello?" He asks again, "Is anyone here?"

As if all he needed was to get louder, a door whizzes open on his right, the sound hushed.

"What do you want?" A man asks, voice gruff.

Lance gulps and reaches to pull his hood from his face, letting fall a mess of brown, slightly curled hair. The man hasn't looked up from his tablet, the screen glowing a neon, bright blue. His dark hair is pulled back into a low bun and his chest moves as if he were breathing, the rise and fall languid against the material of his shirt. If Lance weren't here, in the heart of the enemy districts, he'd assume the guy was human.

"Uh, hi." Lance clears his throat and at this, the man finally looks up.

Almost instantly, the energy in the room shifts.

Everything grows tense, electric and sharp as a sparking wire. His eyes roam Lance's face and there's a flicker of color in the pupil, a deep swirling red that insinuates he's trying to gather information.

But Lance is a blank slate. Totally clean.

By the look on the guy's face, it seems he's figured that out.

"Who the fuck are you?" He asks, setting his tablet down on one of the couches, "You aren't-"

"Supposed to be here."

The man nods his head, "You aren't one of us."

"Right." Lance nods and brings a hand to his nape, palm resting against his undercut in a show of nervousness. "I know."

Looking ready to pounce, the guy tilts his head in an inquisitive manner. One that makes Lance's skin break out in chills, stories of the Androids and their cold, calculated actions seeming cruel in the eyes of human beings. But to the 'Droids themselves any action taken is a simple function of self preservation. Something that is necessary for their survival.

Before the situation can escalate, Lance raises his hands in what he hopes is a show of peace. "I need your help."

"My help."

"Yep." He tries for a smile but it fades very fast.

The man stalks forward, "Not interested."

"But-" Lance's voice hitches, the act embarrassing compared to the level tone of the 'Droid. "Look, I...there's nobody else I can turn to. You're it for me." When the man doesn't reply, he continues, "You're Red, right?"

"Who's asking?"

"Lance." He says, "My name's Lance."

"You must have risked quite a lot coming here, Lance." Red takes a seat but his leg bounces, the movement strange considering he shouldn't feel nervous or even remotely uneasy.

"I did. But not coming here would have been much worse."

When Red tilts his head toward the couch Lance carefully sits on the edge of a cushion. It's soft, the leather warm beneath his palms.

"How so?"

Lance takes the question as a sign that he's actually being listened to. That the 'Droid isn't setting him up in some trap, that he hasn't somehow sent a message to others for some kind of aid; for an ambush or attack.

"My uh," Lance winces, "it's my shoulder. And my heart. There are humans who could help me but even the lowest prices are too high and I heard from a friend that you do operations for anyone. Human and Android alike."

"This is what you've heard, hm?" Red leans back and crosses a leg over his left knee, the movement swift and fluid. "Who's this friend of yours?"

"Can't really tell you that-"

"Then consider this conversation over."

The words make Lance freeze. His blood runs cold and a pit grows in his stomach, threatening to turn into a void. He's getting desperate and judging by the look on Red's face, the 'Droid knows it.

"Wait." Lance breathes, shoulders falling an inch. "They're...if someone finds out they're supplying information like this, they'll be arrested-"

"Who am I going to tell?" Red raises a dark brow, "Your Death Squads? Should I walk across the border and tell them the name of your friend five seconds before an override is plugged into my skull?"

Lance flinches, "I just mean-"

"No name, no service."

"Lotor Romov." Lance blurts, the name now tasting bitter on his tongue.

Saying it feels like betrayal.

But Reds face twitches, the corner of his mouth pulling down into a subtle frown.

"Of course it was him."

"So you know him?"

Red hums, "Does it surprise you? That the son of your leader fraternizes with the enemy?"

"I never said you were my enemy." Lance lifts a shoulder, "But honestly? It doesn't surprise me. He's never agreed with his father and he's never been quiet about it, either."

At this, Red stands. He reaches for his tablet and hurriedly swipes, eyes moving fast over words that Lance can't even hope to keep up with. Then, the tablet is passed to him.

"Your fingerprint will be your signature."

"What am I signing?"

"Consent." Red moves behind him and reads over his shoulder, "That if somehow you are found out, you will speak no word of this place and in the event that you do, I have permission to put you down."

"Put me down. Like a fucking  _dog?"_

"Of sorts." Red leans closer, his black hair brushing against Lance's cheek, "Though I'm sure neither of us want that."

It isn't a threat. There's something in his voice that Lance senses is genuine, even if that seems impossible. Lance looks back to the tablet and scans the conditions, knowing very well what he was getting into days before he decided to actually do it.

 _Look, Red's professional. He won't hurt you so long as you don't hurt him._  Lotor said while they were walking through the Gardens of the Citadel, his clothes fluttering in the frigid wind.  _He won't help you for free, though._

Lance was confused, _I thought Androids don't require money-_

_They don't but each of them want something anyway. I can't tell you what that is, though. You'll just have to work it out with him._

"So, you can help me right?" Lance asks after placing his index finger against the screen, watching as Red puts the tablet on a table before coming to stand in front of him.

Then, his hand is held out. Lance stares at it, unsure of the Android's intentions.

"Take my hand." Red urges. When Lance reaches forward, he shakes his head. "Other one."

Lance's teeth grind but he places his left palm flush against Reds, watching as his fingers close around his own, a soft light glowing between them the moment Lance's LifeChip is activated. It's not a handshake and it's not a welcome; it is simply a way for Red to gain even more information on what he'll be working with. He wonders what Red is seeing. In his own mind, he pictures streams of code and text, a visualization of numbers that give orders and make the inner workings of his shoulder and chest function. Red makes a soft noise in his throat and it shocks Lance from his speculations.

"Are you alright?" He asks.

Red grips him tighter before giving a solid tug, effectively bringing Lance to his feet, the light soon fading as the chip in his palm is left alone. Like all citizens in the nation, most of his internal health is monitored easily by that small piece of metal and data. Lance watches as Red comes back to the world, his eyes blinking slow before clearing completely.

"I can do something to last you a day or two." Red gets right to work, leading Lance toward a metal table with nothing short of urgency. "But if you want to keep your heart beating at all, I'll need hours upon hours to get into the integral system. The core is protected by firewalls put in place by your people, mostly meant to keep my kind out. But if I don't at least do this, you'll be dead by morning. The fluids within the core will burst and release from the pressure and this will turn to poison, which will corrode the chambers until it stops circulating blood entirely."

He pauses and Lance sits, watching wide-eyed as the 'Droid gets to his knees in front of him, hand quickly unzipping his jacket.

"What're you doing?"

"Be quiet." Red leans forward and peers close to Lance's chest, hands resting on either side of his thighs.

The position, while not sexual, manages to elicit a flush on Lance's face all the same. He shifts and Red's grip on his knee tightens a fraction, warning him to remain still. Lance looks at the ceiling and holds his breath but time continues to drag on way too slow. He lets the breath out in a rush before glancing back down, attention drawn to the thick of Red's eyelashes.

For a machine, Lance thinks they look incredibly lifelike.

"Just as I suspected." Red stands in a flurry before walking to a large shelf, rummaging through several drawers before placing tools in a wire basket. "A light drip has already touched the fourth chamber."

Lance gulps, "Which is bad, right?"

Red turns to look at him, eyes roaming Lance's expression before giving a sharp nod. "Very bad."

"Great." Lance runs a hand down the length of his face, "That's fantastic."

"Try not to worry. I can fix this."

Lance nods but he still feels helpless, like he could have done something to avoid this entire situation. But really, what _could_ he have done? He's broke, totally spent and in no way eligible for an upgrade. Guard to the Prince aside, there is nothing to his name that can obtain special treatment. Life in this city just doesn't work that way.

"Put your arm on the table." Red orders. "Please remove your shirt."

The moment Lance is ready, Red dives in. He runs his fingers along the grooves of metal on his shoulder, feeling dents like bruises of the flesh. His eyes flash fast and when he presses just so, the wires beneath the silver light up a bright, neon blue.

"There." He says to himself, already reaching for something in his basket.

When he pulls it out, it looks like a scalpel. The tip is flat and sharp, thin enough to slide between two bolted pieces of junk like a knife in butter. He wedges it in and uses a finger to press against the small opening, a hiss filling the air. Lance tries to look, watching as a small rod protrudes from the finger and into the inner workings of his shoulder.

Red looks up at him, something strange passing over his face. "Your kind find things like this taboo. They say it's unnatural. Disgusting."

"Yep." Lance admits, "But some of us find it interesting, too."

There's a click and Lance jumps, electricity buzzing down the length of his arm, running all around the non-metallic bones and nerves. Red stares at him a few seconds longer until Lance finally meets his eye.

"What happened to your heart? In the third chamber I saw the permanent contusion and the bulky motor. It looks like it was a rushed job. Like it just barely managed to keep the organ alive."

It's an abrupt question. It makes Lance's stomach roll and his pulse race no matter how hard he tries to quell it.

"Got shot." He clears his throat, "A few years back. Don't really remember the details."

Red nods, "Oh."

He leaves it at that. There are no pressing questions, no shock or pity. It was a simple ask and answer, a curiosity that has been quelled.

Lance appreciates it.

There's another click before a shift, something subtle enough that for a moment, Lance feels nothing at all. And then there is a burst of relief so strong that Lance's eyes flutter and shut. His left hand clenches to keep from shaking, the hair on his arms rising as if he'd brushed against static. Like a breath of fresh air his muscles ease from months worth of stinging pain and it feels so good, so relieving, he fears he'll actually cry.

"Better?" Red asks, voice quiet and for the first time, rather soft.

Outside, rain falls in earnest. Thunder crashes and the music switches to a new song, one that reminds Lance of the stars and moon and everything celestial.

He nods, a true smile rising on his lips, "Much better."

When he opens his eyes, Red is putting the tool back into his basket. He brushes a piece of hair behind his ear and Lance catches sight of a silver loop in the lobe.

"I didn't know you could get piercings."

Red huffs a laugh, another action that is so human it leaves Lance a bit stunned.

"You don't know anything about me." Red places the basket back onto the shelf, "All you know is the spitting words of human hatred."

"Lotor's told me tons of things that say the opposite." Lance counters. "He really advocates for peace. Lots of us do."

"It's been approximately eighty-nine years since the War." Red turns to face him, "I hardly expect you to understand us, Lance Mcclain. And I don't expect you to try."

"Yeah? Well, you don't know me either." Lance stands and begins to put his shirt back on, suddenly wanting nothing more than to curl up in his bed and sleep. He's too tired for political debates and it hardly matters that'd it be between an actual Android and himself. "How do you want me to pay you?"

"Not yet."

"But-"

"I don't want your money. I don't need it. Don't worry about payment until you're healed." Red glances toward the door.

Taking that as dismissal, Lance turns on his heel and zips his jacket, "When should I be back?"

Red takes a moment to reply but when Lance turns around, he's already picking his tablet back up. He doesn't even look at Lance when he says, "Two days."

And with that, he turns away. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any mistakes!

 

Waking to constant noise is something Lance wishes he wasn't used to. Still, his alarm goes off and he rises bleary eyed in the dawn. A siren screams outside and above him someone walks with heavy steps, their feet traveling from one end of Lance's room to the other. He groans and pushes his palms against his eyelids, knowing the quicker he gets up the better off he'll be. Sitting around will just make him want to curl back beneath the blankets forever.

When his feet find the cold floor his breath hitches in his throat. Last night he got home around 3AM and now he's awake at 6, a time that usually doesn't bother him so damn much. But as he gathers himself out of bed everything that happened returns in a rush. Immediately, his hand settles on his shoulder and he feels the cold metal, something akin to disbelief and bliss pouring into his chest. Just a few hours ago he was ignoring the bursting pain with labored breath and a clenched fist. Now, he rolls his shoulders back and stretches his arms high above his head, a smile breaking out on his lips.

Light filters into the bedroom through a circular window and he leans his face toward it, pretending there is warmth. Dust particles dance in the air and for a minuscule moment he even manages to block out the sounds of the city. He places a hand on his chest and kneads the flesh, working the muscles in his hand and forearm until there is an ounce of faux peace. For right now there is no rushing, no working or training or watching. There is only him, there is only the promise that he can be saved; that he finally has a lifeline to hold on to.

Then, his second alarm blares and he throws the rest of his sheets off with a huff.

Peace over.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The King's Citadel is huge. Built after the Uprising, after the Androids and their supporters started the war that would divide the city, it still towers over the concrete jungle like a protective giant. Flags whip in the wind, glass and chrome glitter in the polluted sun and it is the epitome of cleanliness in a world overtaken by grime.

Guards wander the premises and many nod to Lance when he passes, his chip identified and scanned to permit him further entry. He waits for wrought iron gates to open and when they do he enters the gardens with precise steps. Trees, actual _living_ , organic _trees_ , spread around the Citadel like a second barring from the outside world.

Lance brushes a hand on some bark, knowing he's lucky to feel it beneath his palm at all. Outside of this place the city is a maze of oil and dark steel and aging technology. And though he isn't inclined to say the King deserves this foliage, he can't help but appreciate it anyway. Birds chirp and grass sways, flower bushes giving the air an almost sickly sweet scent. It wafts over the tinges of trash and murky water from the distant harbor, where many goods enter the city from other major hubs throughout the world.

When Lance eventually finds the old cobblestone path leading to the entrance of the Citadel, he speeds up his pace. Checking the time, he knows he's five minutes away from being late. He hurries through the halls and narrowly avoids knocking over a servant and their tray full of crystalline cups, the interior painted with pretty pink blossoms.

"Excuse me." He mutters before sprinting again.

Though the Citadel was built after the third technological boom, it still holds an air of something ancient. Lance can feel it as he passes portraits of men and women who had been deemed presidents in the past before slowly transitioning back to an archaic term: Royalty. The entire palace is a mixture of the future and the past, of what once was and what is, reborn.

When he finally stops in front of huge oak doors, the handles silver and shining, he lets out a breath and straightens his suit. Armored and colored like dark obsidian, nothing can touch or marr Lance's flesh so long as he wears this. On his left shoulder sits a single emblem: a silver torch and a crown, the symbol of Royal Guard to the Prince. Lance nods at the man waiting beside the doors and soon they're opening with a quiet creak.

The room is, of course, dark as night.

Lance rolls his eyes and heads toward a small panel on the wall, punching in a simple code to lift the blinds. Light enters the room slowly, each shutter revealing more and more of the view. This high, the entire city is spread out like a game board. He can see so far as the Android Districts and if he looks harder, he swears he could zoom in on Reds small, secret shop.

Behind him there is a loud groan. Lance laughs and turns, more than ready to drag the boy out of the bed by the ankles if he has to.

"So you survived." Lotor mumbles into his pillow, silky silver hair looking like a bird nest atop his head.

"So I did." Lance says.

Lotor pulls the blankets up toward his chin, legs curling so that he can get comfortable. Lance, on the other hand, can't let that happen.

"As much as I appreciate your help," Lance stalks closer to the edge of the bed, "I can't allow you to sleep in. Again."

"Just once more." Lotor begs.

A bell tolls in the distance and Lance knows they both heard it. The sound is a signal to those in the highrises closest to the Citadel that the day for the rich, for the elite and corporate affiliated, is starting.

"Up." Lance orders, ripping the blankets away from Lotor's body.

The noise he makes is similar to a cat being drenched by water. He huffs and throws an arm over his eyes, looking for all intents and purposes like a spoiled brat. Though regardless of Lotor's dramatics, he is more refined than others give him credit for.

He's smart, too.

When his eyes land on Lance, full of spitting blue fire, Lance is reminded just how intelligent he can be.

"If you let me sleep, I'll-"

"Nope. No. Not gonna happen." Lance shakes his head and tugs at Lotor's ankle, listening to him squawk. "Just get up so neither of us are berated for it later."

He glares something sharp but soon relents, quick to dress but taking much longer to apply his usual cosmetics. Glancing at Lance in the mirror of his vanity dresser, the calculating mischief in his eye soon fades to relief.

"You look better today." He says, using a small brush to apply a thin sweep of color to his eyelid.

Lance smiles, "I feel better. Thank you."

"I didn't really do anything."

"Without your map and Red's shop, I'd be dead."

Lotor whips around, shock quickly building to panic, "What?"

Lance just shrugs, "Red's words, not mine."

"You...this is-" Lotor slams his hair brush on the vanity and strides to his shoes, putting them on with a bit too much force. "I'm sorry, Lance. I'm so sorry it took me so long to-"

"Stop." Lance winces and brings a hand to his temple, feeling a returning ache forming behind his eyes, "None of this is your fault."

Lotor, on the other hand, thinks that it is. And maybe in a way there's truth to that. But Lance can't remember what led up to the apparent shooting and no matter how hard he tries, Lotor can't either. They're stuck in an amnesiac loop, feeling emotions that accompany the trauma but seeing nothing of the act itself. It's horrific some nights and a strong annoyance most days, always bringing a cloud that threatens to drown them in rain. All Lance can do is keep his job and deny Lotor's inquisitions about his funds. Not a day goes by that he doesn't ask Lance if he needs help or promise that if he were to only ask, there would be thousands in his cyberbank. But Lance has too much pride for that. He refuses to cheat his way to comfort.

"You don't know that for sure, do you? That this isn't my fault?" Lotor leans against the wall and gestures toward Lance's heart, jaw ticking. "We were both there and in the end, _you_  are the one who almost died for it. That's all the proof I need that it was my fault. So just _let me apologize_ , alright?"

They have this conversation every few days and neither of them know how to stop it. Lance simply nods and places his hands behind his back, taking on the role of a guard before he can say something stupid. Lotor watches him for a moment longer, expression more open between them than it ever is in public. He looks as if he wants to say something more but with a clatter in the hallway he wipes his face clean, fixing his brow and mouth into something stoic.

"Well, let's go then." He sighs and opens the door, knowing Lance will follow.

They walk in silence for a long while, the life of the Citadel moving busily around them. Servants set up new decorations for the holiday season and baked foods travel to each floor, smelling of actual meat and roasted vegetables. Lance breathes it in, not looking forward to the dinner he'll end up eating later tonight: mass produced, genetically modified burgers and waxy, tasteless fries. Either that or the noodles that feel like slime in the throat, a texture he just can't enjoy even if the meal does taste kinda good.

Lotor senses his dread and he smiles, "I'll sneak you something before you leave."

"Don't worry about it." Lance murmurs, keeping close to the Prince's back. "Fake chemical cow is my absolute favorite."

Lotor's quiet laughter manages to echo against the high ceilings and it follows them to the gardens, where a hover-car already waits to bring them to the Chapel. When they get inside, Lotor leans his head on Lance's shoulder.

"You know, you might as well move in altogether."

Lance rolls his eyes, "I doubt that would sit well with your parents."

"They're practically ghosts. Much too busy ruining this city in the dark-" He cuts off, holding his tongue in the presence of the driver before continuing, "Besides, there are plenty of rooms."

"Acxa-"

"Is away for the holidays." Lotor lifts his head, gaze turning toward the city on the other side of the channel. The waterway is filtered and dyed a crystal blue, feigning the photographs and videos of the oceans when they weren't so polluted. The channel separates the Citadel and the rich from the city they control; a constant reminder to Lotor of the corruption running rampant beneath his father's iron fist. "You're the only other friend I have, you know. Red hardly counts, I barely see him enough as it is."

There is a fondness in his tone but Lance still senses a deep loneliness in Lotor, one that never really fades no matter how many people he's surrounded by. It's been there since he was a child and it festers, reminding Lance why he won't leave the Prince in the first place.

"I'm not moving in." Lance says with finality, "But I'm not leaving either."

At this, Lotor visibly relaxes.

When they arrive at the Chapel, Lotor's old nanny greets them by the doors. It's one of the oldest buildings in the nation, preserved through time and war, guarded and protected against the brunt of the Android uprising. A steeple reaches toward the sky and pretty glass windows reflect rainbow light, the kind that bathes every face in vibrant color. Though it's used now as more of a bragging right, as a way to show off the newest fashion and talk of the latest consumerist spins, Lance suspects there are still a few individuals who follow the ancient service with interest. Lance doesn't believe in much of anything, really. But he does find the atmosphere peaceful.

Lotor makes his way to the front aisle and hugs a young woman with short brown hair, her skin painted with glittering patterns. Though he's begun to close himself off, Lotor still sits beside her and leans his head in to hear what she has to say.

As the service begins, Lance welcomes it. Later, there will be meetings he has to stand outside of and hours of Lotor's training and tutoring, where he commits politics and science and analytics to memory. He works endlessly to understand his fathers rule of the city so that one day, in the event of his fathers death, he can take over.

Looking at him now, Lance knows the Prince isn't very privy to taking over at all. At least not in the way everyone in this room expects him to. While he's calculating and sometimes cold, he is not his father. On the contrary, he's always been curious about Androids and the fragile peace that hangs in the balance. More than anything, he is no dictator.

Instead, he is full of hope.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The night Lance is meant to return to Red, he feels nausea roll in his stomach. His arm has begun to throb viciously and his chest clenches as if he's severed an entire muscle, as if he's been stabbed with a molten needle in repetition. The pain leaves him gasping for breath. He practically runs the entire distance to the subway and further still, until he's sneaking across the dissecting city line, bypassing the checkpoint with ease. He sprints against the downpour and can't be bothered to care about the attention he may be bringing to himself. All he can do is hope that he makes it.

When he does, the door opens with a burst of warm air. He leans against the wall, hands trembling with each shaky breath entering his lungs. Red stands in the foyer, expectant and unmoved, eyes traveling from Lance's raised jacket hood to the tip of his chin, where a bead of rain water drips.

"Welcome back." He says, voice quiet. He waits a moment before stepping aside, eyes finally trailing away from Lance's face, "Let's begin."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying this so far :] everyone's backstory will be explained over time. The next chapter will be up asap! 
> 
> Here's a playlist I'm making for this story : [LIFELINES](https://open.spotify.com/user/hpooj32czh6gay8fsfp7uhweb/playlist/3aJcF73xPmMrZRNkBsVAmY?si=AazzOlVARfej7yP330G1bw)
> 
> And here's my tumblr : [STAROAMER](https://staroamer.tumblr.com/) (it's a bunch of cyberpunk aesthetic and occasional voltron) come talk to me! <3


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

"Hold very still."

Red's command is quiet but stern and ultimately a welcome distraction from the pain. Lance gulps against the vomit wanting to break free from his stomach before nodding his head, hair damp at his temples.

"Can you say something else?" Lance asks, trying his best to keep his voice from cracking.

Barely shifting, Red makes a disgruntled noise.

"I mean, I can talk a shit ton if I need to." Lance hisses when something twists against his shoulder, "But I'd rather not right now talk right now considering the uh, situation. It'd help if you just said _something_ -"

"If I don't filter this small leak you'll be dead within the hour."

Lance winces and looks toward Red, eyes narrowed. "If you weren't _you_ , I'd think that was a joke."

Saying nothing else, Red uses a small tool to twist a knob deep within Lance's shoulder until it gives a harsh click. He jumps and bites his lip to keep from yelling out, eyes fluttering shut against the new bout of pain.

"So, what's your name?" Lance asks, the question gritty between his teeth. "Forgive me if I don't believe it's actually Red."

Red hums and pushes a syringe into the bio flesh on Lance's neck, deep enough that he swears it reaches his spine. He hunches over, feeling that vomit resurface quick as a rising tide.

"Dude, what the fuck are you _doing_ to me-"

"It's impossible for me to begin work on your heart if the fluid from your shoulder is breaching the spine. It would be like putting a piece of tape on a wall holding back a dam." Red's voice is just as calm as always, practically emotionless against Lance's growing hysteria. "This is unexpected and now I have to halt the plan I made for your visit. You should have gotten this mech checked at least twice a year. Without proper maintenance, the old frames crumble. You, in turn, will crumble."

Lance scowls and squeezes his eyes shut, "Obviously."

"I take it you got shot twice." Red finally lifts his eyes from Lance's shoulder but for once Lance doesn't bother looking back. "The entry severed the muscles meant to keep your arm mobile. While the other clipped your heart."

Lance just grunts.

"How are you alive?"

Keeping his eyes shut, Lance hears the question as if asked in an empty room. It echoes, bouncing around the corners of his mind, searching for the answer in the pits and shallows and boxes kept locked in the dark. Slowly, before he even realizes it, the pain in his body begins to fade. It trickles out of him the longer he sits there, still as a statue.

When he opens his eyes, he shakes his head. "I don't know. Like I said, it's hard to remember."

The syringe is taken from his neck but it's no surprise that he didn't feel it. The moment the medicine entered his blood, he was numb.

"Thank you." He gulps and brushes a hand on his forehead, trying and failing to rid it of damp perspiration. "That was starting to hurt like a bitch."

"I simply don't want you passing out from what comes next. Most do."

The ominous words make Lance pause, his gaze finally moving to watch Red. The man stands and pulls a tube from a compact blinking chest, two clear bags hanging on hooks above. He opens a bottle and pours something sludgy inside the bag on the left, the color as muddy as a grime puddle outside. Then, with precise intent, he uncaps a very clean, very sharp needle. He connects a tube to a small clip and twists. Once the sludge bubbles, he brings the needle to Lance's forearm. Soon after, he connects a different needle to his other arm.

Though he can't feel it, Lance grimaces at the sight.

"Care to tell me what you're doing now?"

Red nods, "Filtering the toxin from your blood."

"Right." Lance gulps, "Cool."

Leaning his head back, he tries to ignore the sound of the machine pumping and beeping. It's hard, considering all else is quiet. The rain stopped a while ago and the music is nonexistent tonight, much to Lance's dismay.

"Lotor." Red says, the name clipped on his tongue. "How do you know him?"

Shrugging, Lance watches him walk to a couch close by, leg crossing over his knee in a similar fashion to the night they met. He meets Lance's gaze, a flash of curiosity apparent by the crease of his brows. By the way color flashes within his iris.

"My mom," Lance starts, hearing the sad nostalgia in his voice, "she used to find jobs anywhere she could get them. Growing up in the 7th District was hard on a single woman and four kids."

He rips his eyes away from Red, wishing he had the strength to _not_ answer his questions. But like Lotor, he supposes there's a hint of loneliness in himself too. A desperate need to connect, to form new relationships in hopes that they won't eventually go up in flames. He refuses to think about how this new relationship, professional as it may be, is with a machine.

Continuing, he stares at the drip of dark fluid and his own blood, watching how it stains the clear bag scarlet.  
  
"So, one day she comes home ecstatic. I'm drawing on the floor, no tablet or anything by the way, I'm just scribbling with a marker on the bare ass floor, and she bursts into the room with the biggest smile. Didn't even get on to me for the mess like she usually did." Lance smirks at the memory, "She gets my siblings and I to sit down and tells us she has a _forever job._ Y'know, a way to make stable income instead of panicking to make rent. Anyway, I was way too young to stay home alone, especially in a District like the 7th, so I started going to work with her. All the way across the channel, to the huge palace I'd stare at from my window."

Red doesn't move from his seat but Lance can see him in his peripheral; watching, listening intently.

"She only worked nights at the time but I didn't mind. It was always hard for me to sleep." Lance can see the Citadel in his mind, though now it is through the eyes of a child. He sees the gardens and twisting hallways through the vision of a smaller him, still innocent and naive to the world. "Turns out it was hard for Lotor to sleep too. We saw each other when I was bringing fresh sheets to my mom in one of the bedrooms. He stopped me and I thought I was in trouble." He snorts, "I almost cried but it turns out he just wanted to help me. And when we got to the room, he didn't leave."

The machine beeps and Red stands fast, hurriedly turning off a switch. The tubes begin to slow their filtration though they don't stop entirely.

"You've managed to remain friends, then." He says.

Lance sighs, "I had to get a job to stick around the place. Turns out i'm pretty good in a fight and I'm even better when the fight means I'm protecting someone."

Red nods, seemingly understanding what he means. He brushes a strand of hair behind his ear and Lance spots his piercing, the way it curves around his lobe and glints beneath the light. He notices the way his skin looks as real as Lance's, down to the hairs and freckles.

"You never answer my questions." He says, "But I'm answering all of yours, which isn't really fair-"

"My name is Keith."

Lance blinks.

Then, when Keith finally turns the machine off entirely, he blinks again. "Oh."

"Lift your arm." Keith orders, making sure he can slide the needle out and stub the flow of blood with two swift motions.

He wraps a gauze around Lance's elbow and ties it tight, ignoring the way Lance continues to stare at him. Moving to the other side, he does the same, only this time he slides his fingers down the length of Lance's arm.

Something twists in Lance's stomach, the feeling new and electric and very unexpected.

"Do you feel this?" Keith asks, visibly pressing down on the pressure point in Lance's wrist.

"A bit." Lance clears his throat, cheeks growing warm. "Am I supposed to?"'

"Yes. Your nerves will be free of all blockage soon." Keith takes his hand away, though the touch lingers. "I need to check your vitals."

When Lance doesn't reply, Keith simply holds out his hand. His palm has lines as if he'd been formed in the womb, where his fists were clenched tight against the fluid. There's a scar on his thumb and Lance can see a subtle blue color beneath his skin, like the wires are actual functioning veins. When Lance places his hand within Keith's grasp, he notices the contrast of their skin. One faux, one bio; both unique in strange little ways.

Keith tenses as he gathers information, his iris's brightening to a fiery crimson. Lance wonders absentmindedly if that's how he got his name or if all 'Droids look the same when they connect to streams of data.

"Your blood sugar is low."

Lance nods, "It usually is."

"Have you eaten?" Keith has yet to drop his hand and Lance gets the idea that he's searching, somehow, for a meal record.

With a frown, Lance takes his hand away. He reaches for his shirt and slides it on, feeling almost refreshed. If not for the hollow pit in his stomach and the lingering smell of metal and antiseptic, he could probably pretend that he's simply visiting a friend. That he isn't meeting Keith within secretive hours simply because he hopes the man can save his shortening life.

"I'll be getting some money soon." Lance says, trying to dissuade the conversation. "I'll eat when I can."

"You need to eat now." Keith counters, "If your blood sugar drops any lower your body could go into shock."

Nodding, Lance makes to stand. The world tilts and he lets out a yelp of a noise, cheeks flaming the second it passes his lips. Suddenly, before he can faceplant into the tile, a hand steadies his elbow.

"Come on." Keith sighs, already moving Lance toward the door, "There's no use in you dying of a heart attack now."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The streets of the 'Droid Districts are just as smog ridden as the rest of city. Buildings rise one after another with no end in sight, most of them disappearing into the night sky. Lights flash and holographic ads play, though Lance can tell they are for things he'll never need. Tune-ups are normal for people with aiding additions to their appearance but not to the extent that he sees now. Entire bodies are on pixelated display, relaying inner workings of wires and hardware, practical gibberish highlighting certain focal points. Other ads flash code for intricate software, the numbers moving quicker than Lance can keep up with.

"How are you taking me somewhere to eat if you don't eat?" Lance asks aloud, walking close enough to Keith so that they're both safe under the umbrella from the drizzle of rain.

Hoverbikes and cars travel through the streets in constant streams, the lights reflecting off of the wet pavement. Music plays through windows and steam rises outside of shops, conversation traveling with a buzz of endless energy. He's surprised, almost blown away, by the similarities between their two worlds.

"You aren't the first human to find themselves on this side of the city." Keith says, motioning for Lance to cross a busy street. They shoulder past a flow of bodies and Lance ducks his head, gaining Keith's attention. He leans closer, until Lance can feel the brush of his hair on his cheek. "Don't worry too much. I've blocked your Chip IP and VR accounts. Just act normal. To everyone else, you are one of us."

Lance sucks in a quick breath, feeling a shiver run the length of his spine. Without his chip he's entirely off the grid. He's a defect, an outcast to the system that keeps track of his money and his health and his entire fucking _life_. For a moment he feels nothing at all.

Then, when he finally lifts his head entirely, he feels brand new.

Free.

Neon light falls across his face and he breathes in the nighttime air, shocked that without the cloth of his own jacket against his nose he can smell a twinge of something cooked. It's subtle, that's for sure. But when they turn another corner and he's led through a sliding door, it's almost overwhelming. Instantly, his mouth waters.

"How?" He asks, "Why?"

Keith leads him to a table tucked away in a dimly lit corner, a glowing purple light hanging in the air above them. It bathes Keith's pale skin a pretty violet.

"The families who aided us during the war," Keith explains, bringing up a holographic screen with a swipe of his finger on the table, "still live among us. Their children walk beside us. We keep them hidden. Safe."

"Safe from who?"

Keith presses a button in front of his face and the screen is split to reflect what he sees. Rotating bowls of steaming noodles and golden baked bread make Lance's stomach growl, encouraging him to reach forward and pick a meal. When the order is placed and Keith grabs a drink from a hovering tray, quickly sliding it to Lance, the conversation once again picks up.

"On both sides there are those who want nothing more than to destroy the other." Keith watches Lance swallow the carbonated juice, "They tolerate the families we protect but if those same families emerged across the line, and someone found out who they are, the Death Squads would be on them in minutes. They'd be labeled traitors to the crown, they'd be tortured and exposed and killed."

Lance places his drink back on the table, feeling his stomach lurch.

"It's fucked up." He admits, eyes immediately glancing to the door as if he'd be caught speaking the words. If he were far away from here, even in his own apartment, that would surely be the case. He looks at Keith, feeling the anger that he's always harbored surface and boil. "It's fucked up and there's nothing someone like mecan do about it. Those in power, the corps that keep working us to death, make sure that hatred stays strong."

Keith doesn't look surprised by he says but instead he seems almost intrigued or approving. His blinks are slow when he leans back in his seat, head nodding to each word Lance spews.

"That's why Lotor-" Lance leans forward, voice low. "He's going to change _everything_. The moment he can, he's flipping this entire city on its head. He'll abolish the borders and the Death Squads around the nation, he'll totally destroy the corps-"

"You really think he can do it?"

Lance looks at Keith as if he sprouted two heads. "Without a doubt." He says, feeling the truth in his gut.

Suddenly, a bowl of noodles appears in front of him. He startles and leans back from the table, glancing at the woman who walks away. She doesn't act as if she heard them but Lance can't be sure. Do 'Droids have sound enhancers? Can they hear the way his breath stutters, how it isn't timed and controlled and practiced?

"I said don't worry, didn't I?" Keith tilts his head, noticing the way Lance's jaw ticks with the clenching of his teeth. "You're safe here."

"Right, well." He tries for a laugh, eager to dissipate the talk of politics. "On my side of the city I could be killed for saying shit like that. Not that I haven't nearly died before. And I'm not talkin' about my heart, either. Did you know one time I got chased by a group of Tech Heads and their rabid dogs on my way home from school? Now _that's_ a near-death experience."

Lance slurps a noodle, eyes going wide at the texture. It's not slimy, not slithering and gag-worthy. And even though he soon focuses all of his attention on the delicious food, he doesn't miss the way Keith's face shifts.

The way his lips, for the first time, twitch upward.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some familiar faces will be showing up soon :]
> 
> Some definitions for terms used: 
> 
> VR Accounts: Virtual Reality accounts, usually storing Cybernet history, VR lounge history, banking info, etc. 
> 
> Chip: a small chip holding data that relays internal vitals, genetics, illnesses, Name and Age, etc.
> 
> Death Squads: Keith's nickname for the GCPD. (Galra City Police Department.) 
> 
> Tech Heads: Members of the black market, usually trading and selling in technology, especially if it comes from a living body. Mostly thugs, lower members try to build status by muggings.

**Author's Note:**

> I have big plans for this story so I hope you stick around :) Comments are very appreciated.


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